Watching Comic-Based TV Shows When You Haven't Read The Comics

Writers of a television show adapted from a comic are writing for two very different audiences: avid fans of an already existing narrative, and those who've never read the comics and therefore need to be introduced to each element of the story.

Writing about comic-based television shows online while declaring a complete ignorance of the source material feels somewhat risque. Critiquing comic-based shows is often viewed as the domain of comic book fans. But as an aspiring tv writer and avid consumer of scripted television, I think my opinion is just as relevant, especially when you take into account the companies screening such programs are hoping to secure more than a niche audience.

I've thought about this topic a lot following the release of Daredevil and the subsequent tweets and posts in my social media feed. For me, Daredevil had a great freshman season. The series has a confident style (I think establishing a visual/editorial style is a key element of success on tv these days, but that's another blog). The script was strong, free from chunks of clumsy exposition, and the acting was high calibre. Yet I didn't find it groundbreaking or magnificent, like so many comic fans claimed. 

Scanning the reaction of comic fans to comic-based television shows seems to be a lesson in extremes, a rollercoaster ride of highs and lows. Often when they're onboard it's in the form of overzealous praise. Good doesn't really exist; everything about the show becomes magnificent, incredible, unbelievable. On the other hand, disappoint them with your television interpretation of an adored character and the criticism can be scathing: no redeeming qualities acknowledged.

Trying to discuss a program by putting forward a mix of positive and negative reactions to different elements of the production can become tedious, and prove nigh on impossible. (Also because source material is so often cited in conversation, which means nothing to a viewer who draws a distinct line between the two mediums.) I haven't read any of the comics that provide the inspiration for the television programs I'm watching. Experiencing the story only in a television format made me understand how vast the gap between the uninformed viewer and the informed viewer can become.

You might argue films and television series' adapted from books are in a similar boat, but generally they don't seem to incite the same level of extreme reactions you encounter when discussing comic adaptations.

On watching The Vampire Diaries, my first reaction was apathy bordering on dislike for the lead character Elena, apparently a reworked version of the Elena found in the original novel. (I think the dreaded "relatable female character" trope came into play—another blog for another day!) I didn't feel compelled to read the books because watching the show as a separate entity has become more standard procedure for book-to-tv transformations.

Looking back, I experienced the same comic fan/non-comic fan conundrum when Arrow hit the small screen. The show was entertaining, beautifully done, and I loved Stephen Amell in the lead role. But many fans focused solely on disparate elements between the comics and the small screen: how his character was costumed differently, and his kill count. Commenting on the television show as a stand-alone experience wasn't really welcome online.

In a way, I felt like I wasn't part of the fan base for the show because I couldn't discuss what happened in Issue Whatever of the comics compared to what was unfolding on the small screen. On the other hand, becoming a hit series involves turning casual viewers into avid fans, separate to the comic-saturated portion of the fan base. It's the only way to pull big ratings, meaning my feedback was just as valid/of worth, even if it didn't feel that way.

The Flash is another example. Grant Gustin is brilliantly cast, as are most of the supporting roles. I think the show itself skews younger than Arrow, and I think it works. The series has heart, and an earnest sort of youthful optimism. The concept of the mentor is also a big theme. The Flash has it's own definitive style that comes together to create an entertaining hour of television. Still, a lot of online conversation stayed focused on the discrepancies between the comics and the small screen interpretation.

My only issue with both programs is the representation of women, problematic at best. Don't get me wrong, characters like Felicity and Caitlin are great, but the love interests our leads pine for from the pilot feel like forced plot points, becoming the program's weakest elements.

I sometimes wonder if this is because it's part of a comic trope from earlier years that isn't sitting as well in modern television? I'm not versed enough in the origin stories to say. But every time someone talks about "protecting" Iris on The Flash, I can't help wincing. 

My core issue, though, is the inference Laurel and Iris are more sexually desirable than Felicity and Caitlin. You can't cast beautiful, slender actresses to play women who are geniuses, each with a successful, complex career, not to mention a great sense of humor (also styled gorgeously btw) and then write narrative that implies Felicity and Caitlin are obviously not as attractive/desirable in the eyes of the modern world as Laurel and Iris. Considering higher IQs seem to be the only real differences (to me as an audience member), between Felicity and Laurel, and Caitlin and Iris, I find the implied subliminal messages here quite disturbing.

Obviously over time the scripts are working—episode by episode—to change these dynamics and give us more rounded female leads, but I would say definitely at the cost of initial retention in audience numbers (especially those early days of Arrow). I didn't get the same impression from Daredevil. I really like the multifaceted female characters on that show from the outset. 

I've since been told Daredevil is by Marvel, and Arrow and Flash are from DC. Once again, this aspect of their origins hadn't occurred to me, but it probably should come into consideration. I thought perhaps the fact two of the shows were on CW and the other on a different television format, explained part of the differences. Who can say?

Which brings me to Marvel's Agent Carter. This nearly slipped under my radar, and what a loss that would have been. The program didn't have the fanboy support shown for The Flash and Arrow. Someone whose opinion I trust recommended it, saying I would enjoy the series. I'd read it was about Captain America's girlfriend, and a girlfriend-of-a-superhero focused show sounded like a terrible idea.

Next I saw online that the series was set in the past. I remember thinking, who is going to watch this?! Eventually I checked it out and found the show to be absolutely fascinating. (But more on that later.)

Part of what makes the series so interesting, from a cultural perspective, is the way the show stacked the odds against itself. With no superhero lead, comic fan hype was low. But non-comic fans were staying away too, assuming the series was a kind of superhero thing. At the time, calling the show Marvel's Agent Carter probably seemed like an obvious positive, but in retrospect, I'd consider it a misstep, alienating the program from audiences who would have appreciated it the most: those unfamiliar with its comic roots, but appreciative of television with complex themes.

Basically, Marvel's Agent Carter fell through marketing gaps left, right, and center before the pilot screened. When I watched the episode, I noted the stylized look. The series came across like an old-fashioned television show, in terms of angles and lighting. Even the editing seemed slower paced (although I could be wrong). An entirely different aesthetic. Beautiful, yes, but not really on trend.

Then I realized it was on trend, stylistically, when lined up next to a show like Mad Men. It just wasn't being compared to that, it was being compared to Arrow. Fans who would appreciate the wit and intelligence at work in the scripts weren't watching because they didn't consider themselves part of the target audience. 

And then you ran into other problems. Peggy Carter was a feminist who loved glamor (always wearing lipstick), but wasn't hyper-sexualized. In the modern day, we're not sure if this is an iconic female hero. But Carter is much more complex and interesting than most women who've appeared in comic-related fare; Hayley Atwell's portrayal of the under-utilized agent hits the mark (and then some), making this by far my favorite of all the television shows linked to either the DC or Marvel comic universes.

(On a side note, seeing the openly sexist society of the post WWII workplace on Marvel's Agent Carter was sobering, partly because so many women have experienced echoes of such attitudes in the modern day. The show is an unsettling multifaceted mirror, reflecting both how far we've come, and how far we have to go.)

I'm not sure if the series is based on certain comics. No idea if Peggy has her own comics or is a side character referenced in other characters' adventures. I don't need to know because I enjoyed the series as-is. (I haven't seen the first Captain America film, so I had no idea who Carter was.)

Maybe that's the point. Maybe the idea that comics provide a ready made fan base for television outings is only true to a certain point. As television shows with a link to comic-based narratives step further away from accepted traditional narrative forms and explore the opportunities a different medium provides, so must marketing adapt to bring a different kind of audience into the fold. 

Comic-based television shows don't just belong to fans of comics: those discovering new heroes and inspirations are just as welcome audience members, even if, occasionally, it really doesn't feel that way. 

In summary, the current comic-to-television model is a strange one, relying on a difficult fusion of established fans of another medium and new fans completely unfamiliar with said medium. This also means offerings working outside a (roughly) standardized structure, no matter how entertaining, are at this point in time invariably doomed to slip through the cracks, which is a great pity. Hopefully, in the future, the dynamic will change.*

*Note: I haven't referenced Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or Constantine in this post, as I barely made it through the pilots. I've yet to watch Gotham. It will be interesting to see if Gotham, also working outside the standard superhero format, suffers for it. Hopefully it will be another step in breaking the mold. (Also worth noting, this blog only addresses recent television productions sourced from comic material, and not classic examples of small screen superhero outings.)

Why 12 Monkeys Is The Surprise Sci-fi Gem of The Season

If you haven't checked out the tv adaption of 12 Monkeys, be sure to make the time (pun intended).

My love of time travel material on the big and small screen took a bit of a battering after the disappointment of Looper. Non-linear stories were once the cutting edge of mind-twisting entertainment, yet recent efforts have been halfhearted at best. William Shatner's live tweets convinced me to give 12 Monkeys a try, but it should be noted I was a jaded audience member going into the pilot.

Creating a tv series from a film premise can be rough, especially in a case like this, where the original movie is a trippy cult number from Terry Gilliam starring Bruce Willis and Brad Pitt. A cinematic reputation like that doesn't make for an easy road to adaptation. And the show's on Syfy, which didn't reassure. I haven't been bowled over by the network's recent scripted television offerings: Dominion, Bitten, and Helix, for starters. The quality of the storytelling has fallen consistently short.

I love science fiction (and the paranormal) because the genres allow narrative to wander in unusual directions. Sci-fi and paranormal shows can push boundaries conceptually and structurally: they're free to explore ideas beyond the parameters of everyday television. Comments can be made on complex social, scientific, and ethical issues all while maintaining empathic, emotional connections with the audience–if the writers know what they're doing, that is. These genres should be the antithesis of clumsy storytelling devices and two-dimensional characters, but increasingly this hasn't been the case, and it's a worrying trend. 

Turns out, sometimes taking a risk on a new show really delivers. 12 Monkeys is the first series in a while that lives up to the expectations implied by the network's name. Elements of the movie have been reshaped to suit the medium; this is a different animal to the film, and it's a good thing. The storylines for each episode (and the season's arc) are crafted meticulously. What makes 12 Monkeys a beautiful viewing experience is the overall sense of balance. 

Let's face it, when you're watching out for paradoxes and characters are moving all over the (time) board like chess pieces gone rogue, it's easy for the storytelling to stumble. The potential pitfalls with this kind of series are daunting, but 12 Monkeys steps adroitly over any possible chasms. You can tell when writers have faith in their product: there are no empty tricks or desperate grabs for audience attention because they know you're hooked from the first minute, and that sense of confident restraint is what can make a show so addictive.

12 Monkeys has moments of dry, very realistic wit that occasionally break up the intensity: small, well-placed doses of unexpected levity that don't detract from the seriousness of the program, but give the audience time to breathe.

Like all brilliant science fiction, humanity is at the heart of the story. The goal is to stop a virus from wiping out the bulk of human life on the planet (either in the past, present, or future). Here the myriad friendships/relationships between the characters are elegantly handled, and prove to be in as much of a state of flux as the timeline.

Yes, the true star of 12 Monkeys is the timeline that just won't do what it's told. I feel like this show is a puzzle my brain is currently engaged in, and the state of the timeline is the end game. Whenever a piece moves, I try to work out what impact the change will have on the overall solution, but I'm unknowingly skipping variables, or waiting to turn over cards from a pack that's constantly being reshuffled.

(Kudos to creators Travis Fickett and Terry Matalas, who are responsible for a bulk of the writing in the first season. Just imagining the whiteboard in the writer's room gives me a headache.)

There's some clever casting, too. In all honesty I would never have chosen Aaron Stanford and Amanda Schull as the show's leads. I've only really seen Schull as the unbalanced Meredith in Pretty Little Liars (and a beauty pageant contestant in a Castle episode) so it seemed risky giving her what is a difficult lead role as Dr. Cassandra Railly. She's the controlled scientific type, and those parts can come across as dull and unlikeable–not through any fault of the actor. But Schull does a fantastic job. I really like Cassie, a character I generally wouldn't connect with, and it's because of the way she's portrayed as much as the way she's written.

Likewise, Aaron Stanford. The first time he appeared onscreen, I thought, really? He doesn't seem like a tough survivor from the future. But by the end of the pilot he'd hit it out of the park as James Cole, and each episode sees him reveal another believable layer, in terms of the character's psyche, to the point where Stanford has made Cole one of my favorite characters currently on television. 

It's worth noting my sense of solidarity jumps from Cole to Cassie; suddenly I'm starkly identifying with one or the other, completely engaging with their perspective, before swinging back. I love this factor, it's a large part of the show's allure. 

From moment to moment I'm uncertain what my viewpoint is, in regards to the status of a period in linear time: the past as a changeable past, the past as the present, the future as a changeable future, the future as the present. For viewers it's like looking through a kaleidoscope. One tiny twist, and you suddenly have a different interpretation of the point the story is passing through.

My favorite character in any television show is generally the wild card. Here it's Jennifer Goines, played by Emily Hampshire. She reminds me of Drucilla from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, possessing, as I call it, the befuddled clarity of insanity. Hampshire manages to compel that particular unease you feel when someone's reactions imply they're not mentally well, and she does it with just her gaze, or a single line.

There are so many ethical and moral quandaries in each episode, not to mention careful attention paid to detail. Favorite examples? When Cassie tried to make Cole comprehend she'd been waiting years for him, even though he'd seen her minutes ago. When Cole tried to make Cassie understand it didn't matter if he killed someone because to him everyone was already dead. When Cole didn't know what a license plate was. When Cassie was in the red forest (a Twin Peaks-esque homage, intentional or otherwise). When Jennifer learnt who killed her father. 

The audience can't shake the sensation any moment of stability in the story is constantly balanced on the head of a pin, destined to come tumbling down, and frankly, it's a delicious feeling.

What Spock Taught Me About Life: In Memory Of Leonard Nimoy

On hearing of Leonard Nimoy's passing, I felt the same kind of emotion I'd experienced when Sir Alec Guinness passed on. The characters they created helped shape who I am. Not real, not imaginary, but people of the in-between, a nebulous place where friends from books, film, and television exist when you're a child.

I come from a family who have always loved stories, without pretension. My parents would gift a classic and a pulp novel in the same way: with enthusiasm, and an interest in my opinion. My brother and I grew up on a diet of narrative, and television was an important source of nourishment.

People love to denounce TV as mind-numbing garbage, but we watched everything, and were better people for it. Fellini films, Western classics, kung fu movies, Hollywood musicals, endless sitcoms, and constant cartoons. If there was a storyline, we were in, and it was rare for anyone to watch TV alone.

The original Star Trek was a staple. From the very first episode I was hooked. They were in space! Gene Roddenberry's idea was breathtaking, and all the characters were magnificent, but especially Spock. He always held a special place in my heart.

Spock taught me that it was okay to be smart, and that the right people would like it. While his friends teased him for his detachment, they also loved him. Whenever Spock spouted some fact that helped save the day, my dad would say, "Good old Spock," as if they were old friends.

We'd watch the movies over and over, till a new one came out. The crew of the Enterprise were often in trouble, but always managed to get out of every predicament, all the while saving people (and whole civilizations, if not planets) along the way. I watched the other Star Treks television shows that came along, and adored them in varying degrees, but Spock and Kirk held a special place in my heart.

Television writers will tell you the characters of Spock and Kirk embody the trope of the odd couple, a pair who alternate between exasperating and assisting each other. Initially appearing mismatched, it soon becomes clear the differing personalities are a perfect complement. These pairings are very popular in entertainment mediums, and appear constantly on television for a reason, but Captain Kirk and his science officer were always my favorites.

When it comes to the films, many cite Spock's death scene (and eventual resurrection) as the most affecting, but for me, it was Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country that resonated. Partly due to circumstance: my parents bought me the VHS (showing my age) after surgery, and I watched the movie repeatedly while recovering.

Mostly, though, because of the storyline, and because of Leonard Nimoy's performance: Spock's initial inability to truly understand the depths and repercussions of Kirk's grief over the death of his son, likewise his ability to envisage a brighter future for both the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Not to mention his handling of betrayal, and his use of logic as a tool in the face of great obstacles. He had to work to save Captain Kirk from a predicament resulting from Spock's own choices (and of course, in the end he did) and then together with the crew they saved the precarious peace in place across the galaxy.

Instead of being a film about defeating power-mad baddies, the movie was about the moment when a civilization previously presented as the enemy, become victims of circumstance, and for want of a better word, are humanized. The "enemies" this time were those who had given in to fear (on both sides) and wished to maintain a status quo of cultural mistrust. A brave, interesting premise. Shatner and Nimoy's performances were brilliant, stretching across myriad emotions, leading the audience through both humorous and psychologically harrowing scenes.

I know that as an actor Leonard Nimoy had a sometimes uneasy relationship with the role of Spock; I imagine it must be incredibly difficult to play an iconic character over so many years. Audience perception of the line between the character and the actor invariably begin to blur, an odd situation I'm guessing is terribly frustrating, especially when your career spans much more than a single portrayal. While I vastly appreciate his myriad talents–acting, writing, directing, music making–Spock will always be the role that had the most personal impact.

Which is probably why I was hesitant to watch Nimoy in the recent rebirth of the Trek film franchise. What if his portrayal of Spock somehow jarred, failing to transition to this new variation of the Trek universe?

But I shouldn't have worried. When Leonard Nimoy appeared in the Star Trek reboot, he played the part with so much emotion, brought so much wisdom to his role–and echoes of pain–it was obvious that beyond the role itself he had become a true master of his craft. The part of me that had looked up to him as a child, woke up, recognized the character, and recognized the messages Nimoy was imparting about life, love, and loss all these years later.

Hearing of Leonard Nimoy's passing made the portion of my psyche that perceived Spock as a metaphor for all things magnificent and complex, cry out in sorrow. Ironic that someone presented as part alien portrayed the most human conflict of all; the struggle between emotion and logic. Perhaps because deep down, all of us feel a tad alien sometimes, and the character of Spock was a reminder that somewhere in the universe there is a place for us all, with people who love us despite our quirks, who will appreciate our skills, and with whom we can achieve great things.

If it wasn't for Leonard Nimoy bringing such life, vitality, and depth to the idea of Spock, the character could have ended up little more than a long forgotten gimmick. I doubt I would have the love of science fiction that I do today, or written the kind of stories I tell, without the years of Trek that helped shape my appreciation for the potential of the genre, and, I guess, bolster a belief in humanity's potential for great achievements... In science, yes, but also in moments of selflessness and empathy.

LLAP x

The Game aka The Trials and Tribulations of Joe

What better show to blog about on Valentines Day than The Game, a miniseries that sees the lives of spies shaped, changed, even destroyed by love.

Possibly taking the covert theme too far, this fantastic miniseries about an MI5 operative during the Cold War almost slipped under my radar. The Game is an odd beast, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. 

The show's opener is a kicker. Lead protagonist Joe is in the midst of defecting. I know, not what you'd expect of a hero (or even an antihero), right? But Joe is In Love (capitals warranted). The brutal scene that follows elicits instant sympathy, planting the audience firmly on Team Joe. 

Not the perfect date...

Cut to a much colder Joe back at the office, where we're privy to MI5 in action. Before you get any ideas, this spy zone is the opposite of a James Bond film. More like The Office: Covert Affairs, a daggy staff meeting in a daggy building, where everyone calls the boss Daddy ('cause that isn't creepy).

Come to Papa.

Magnificent casting renders this series topnotch; the understated performances could teach a few Yank productions a thing or two about onscreen subtlety. Tom Hughes holds his own with Brian Cox, Jonathan Aris, Victoria Hamilton, Judy Parfitt, Rachael Stirling, Paul Ritter, and Shaun Dooley, which is no mean feat. My only casting criticism would be Chloe Pirrie, who seems to be overacting, even for a "bumbling" character like Wendy. Then again, she is playing opposite the best in the game (pun intended), who manage to convey complex cocktails of emotion with barely a blink.

When tech didn't fit in your pocket.

The tech is clumsy and old-fashioned, a startling reminder of how much the digital world has developed since this period. On some level, each character seems determined yet disillusioned (or in the process of becoming disillusioned) regarding the machinations of international espionage. Lies, cultivated misconceptions, negotiations, and illusions of power, control, and trust are all driving forces.

For those who claim the show is "too slow", well, I can only feel sorry for you. There is so much happening psychologically that I was riveted and genuinely confused by the criticism. Everyone is weaving webs, the sub-plots as tangled and interesting as the more dominant narrative elements. 

The attitudes of the period to Bobby's sexuality
are empathically addressed.

The espionage storylines unfold in a time-honored convoluted way, with false trails, traitors, and shocking revelations galore. Hindsight is a strange creature; watching the characters fret about imminent attack from the USSR–covert or overt–seems disarmingly quaint, until you realize the actions of people such as these are what rendered possible threats negligible in the first place.

The cinematography is beautiful: colors muted, shots instilled with an odd coldness (even the uber-beige sets lack warmth). Every now and again the actors' faces fill the screen poignantly, frames that could be reproduced as a series of portraits capturing the turmoil of repressed emotions. There's a strange kind of elegance to even the grittiest of scenes. Kudos to assorted episode directors Niall MacCormick and Daniel O'Hara, as well as cinematographers Sam McCurdy and Urszula Pontikos.

No mobile?! My mind couldn't believe it when the spies had to find a phone box. 

As for the conclusion... not to go near spoilers, but while you know a twist is coming, the twist on top of the twist is what had me nodding and saying "bravo" to the television. Joe's mental state at the end of the series is also beautifully written/outlined. Happily Ever After is an alien, almost laughable concept for this crew–given their various professional and personal situations–but the true tragedy is that deep down they still yearn for connection, despite living in a state of cynical vigilance bordering on paranoia.

International timekeeping prior to apps.

One of the elements I admired most about the script was that the primary sexualized spy character was not a woman, but a man. Joe's ability to seduce is openly acknowledged as part of his professional skill set, a psychologically horrifying scenario for someone recovering from perceived romantic loss. Instead of offering this as a conquering, hero-type trait, the referenced sex scenes become a convoluted form of torture that add to the lead's disassociated state. Nice writing from Toby Whithouse (along with Sarah Dollard and Debbie O'Malley for some episodes).

If you haven't seen the series yet, find the time. I caught it at the end of last year, making The Game a late but solid contender for one of the best shows released in 2014. Looking forward to a second season.